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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27431800">Cold</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/0hHarvey/pseuds/0hHarvey'>0hHarvey</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Dress Up! Time Princess (Video Game)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>F/M, Historical Inaccuracy, Marriage Before Love, Romantic Ending, Semi-Slow Burn, soft romance</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-07 00:55:46</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>11,357</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27431800</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/0hHarvey/pseuds/0hHarvey</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>"I promise you," Marie reassures. Her expression is so amiable; careful and considerate of his loss for words. "Do I appear so upset that the very King of France feels inclined to beg pardon?"</p><p>Her smirk is gently playful as she wrings out the excess water from her hair. She's teasing him, pink in her cheeks and neck. The neckline of her dress is low. Her attire sticks to her every angle. He's painfully flustered and finds solace in staring nervously towards the distance as dusk begins to diversify the horizon. He determines the sky to be the inferior view. </p><p>King Louis XVI / Marie Antoinette</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Marie Antoinette/Louis XVI (Dress Up! Time Princess)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>40</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>206</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Regret</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Disclaimer: All Dress Up! Time Princess character concepts belong to IGG Mobile Games Inc. Character names are historically inspired. No copyright infringement is intended. Plagiarism is theft so is prohibited. Do not copy or create a reproduction of this work in any language without express written authorization of the author, 0hHarvey. Thank you. Please enjoy.</p><p>A/N: For a dear friend.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>He has always acknowledged their distance with rehearsed awareness. He had respected it, just as Marie respected his status and obligations. Louis dares to think he was thankful for it, as he found her ill-suited to him as a friend much less a wife. </p><p>He allowed her the necessary freedoms to shop, gamble, perhaps throw her decency away. She'd play dangerous games with men he’d mistakenly trusted, and pushed boundaries he'd never even thought of establishing. New shoes. Exotic foods. Imported waters. Trend setting fashion. Blindly providing expenses to associates and friends. The list was endless, and yet not a soul in Versailles could forget it.</p><p>Louis could once define Marie as a menace, in some ways. But mostly, she was cold. </p><p>She'd caused him extreme stress. It ranged from his inane nervousness at her physical appearance to her blatant disregard for foreign relations. He evaded her consistently as a result. Enough to drive her into a separate wing of the palace much less her own room. Enough for their marriage to have been forgotten entirely unless contritely reminded. </p><p>Blaisdell often gave him grief for it, encouraging better potential for an heir to the throne. Louis had wanted nothing of the sort. </p><p>Currently, however...things have changed - and in rapid succession. </p><p>She's far more free, being well past the accusations against her pertaining to the necklace. Marie wears less stress in her features now that they show gradual improvement economically. She takes avid interest in political matters; things which she'd never concerned herself with before. And he finds her reading twice as often and indulging less and less. </p><p>More time alone. Less with her peers. </p><p>Despite her apparent increase in responsibility, Marie almost seems younger. He can see the slight changes in her countenance, and can recognize it in her demeanor and behaviorisms. Little things like humming and twirling when she'd thought herself alone. Playing with her hair. Drawing shapeless things with ink and quill. He would clear his throat to obtain her attention so as not to intrude abruptly, and yet she would never expose any semblance of embarrassment. </p><p>She lived far more…informally. </p><p>He catches her in the gardens late in the evening. He admits he had sought her out. She enjoys reading and resting at one of the fountains in the Eastern grove just before nightfall. A detail she'd thought a well-maintained secret, as the rustic cobblestone and slight overgrowth are not fit for her usual attire, and it is hardly explored beyond the staff. </p><p>He knows only from her brief mention of it over an early meal. She'd looked so flustered that he'd assumed it to be a slip of the tongue. She was quick to change the subject to the new portrait Blaisdell had intended to hang in his study. </p><p>So when the King finds her there, he is prepared for hesitation and frustration. A familiar feeling that he carries despite himself. He considers the risk, given that he is choosing to invade her personal place of refuge so as to satiate his own curiosities. He anticipates the worst as a result. Ranging from the potential that rumors of her affair with von Fersen would be true, to the outlandish suspicions of her questionable loyalty to France. </p><p>And so the King steels himself as he rounds the final corner, proceeding through the last archway and down a set of stairs some distance from the main garden and property. His posture is rigid against the cold air. His muscles are tense with anticipation. </p><p>Marie is quite the opposite. </p><p>He finds her…casually. Thankfully, alone. Her hair is unpowdered. Her demeanor is relaxed despite the chill. She stands on her toes, elevated on the wall of the fountain, occupied by its structure and the flow of water. The sounds of nature are aided by the gentle ripple and cascades. </p><p>Her feet are bare; dirtied from the grass and stone. He sees a pair of heels set neatly by the flora. Marie continues walking cautiously along the edge of the wall, her spirits calm as she hums something strangely foreign. Her gloveless hands are occupied, lifting the higher seams of her dress so as not to trip or dampen the edges. She's in something rather simple. Smooth, dark fabric that is unadorned with frills or lace. Much more manageable, he thinks, for her current activity. Her ankles show. They are thin and elegant in her careful steps along uneven ridges and splits. </p><p>She is less stiff than he has ever seen her. More natural. More fluid. As though she belonged to this setting more than she ever did at court or in a gambling hall. She closes her eyes to inhale the breeze. It is frigid and crisp as they approach autumn. Yet she lacks anything but the length of her sleeves. Every few moments she will run her foot beneath the surface of the water lazily, shivering immediately after. </p><p>Louis feels as though this is somehow scandalous. For what reason, however, he cannot ascertain. </p><p>He takes a step forward unconsciously, as though he'd intended to approach her with such confidence. He considers a multitude of outcomes, all dependent upon his method of attaining her attention. He can't decide. Leaving as though a ghost is his most favored option, however. He swallows, realizing he's grown red in the neck from a rapid pulse. His hands tremble slightly. He wonders how preposterous it must seem to be so inelegantly nervous when addressing one's wife. </p><p>Marie happens to spin on her heel, her dominant hand stretching out to cut through the water as she turns. He tenses, having been caught. His wife stares directly at him, surprise evident when their eyes meet. She turns to bow as proper, and is smiling brightly to greet him when she slips. </p><p>The King winces visibly at the swift blur of fabric before the abrupt splash. </p><p>In all of his hunting, in all of his nervous upbringing, Louis has never run so quickly in his life. </p><p>"My Queen!" His hands grip firmly at the edge of the wall, veering over to inspect her. "Are you-" </p><p><em> Laughter </em> . A light sound. It’s energetic and carefree. He relaxes immediately at the sight of her tousled hair and disheveled appearance. She is <em> laughing </em> at her predicament. Soaked to the bone, shivering. Sitting inelegantly in a fountain that he'd had crafted at her request long ago. </p><p>His jaw goes slack, still somewhat panicked at the result of his visit. He extends his hand for her to take, anxious and mortified at the result of his actions. "I-...I've no idea how to apologize."</p><p>Her laughter declines naturally into airy breaths; the sound pulls at his chest restlessly as her freezing hand accepts his own. "Why would you feel inclined to apologize, my King?"</p><p>Marie stands upright, ankles submerged. Her shivering hold on him lingers before her index pulls back the damp hair impeding her vision. She smells of rainwater and the imported lilies that grow on its surface. </p><p>"I shouldn't have intruded," he admits. </p><p>She beams at him, careful and accepting of further help as she steps over the wall of the fountain. His hand is warm when she hesitantly lets go. Her bare feet leave puddles along the cobblestone as she wraps her arms about herself for warmth. </p><p>"I didn't expect you, that's all. And I'm unharmed. My own feet failed me, regardless. I doubt that calls for an unnecessary apology." </p><p>"I'm-...I-" </p><p>"I promise you," she reassures. Her expression is so amiable; careful and considerate of his loss for words. "Do I appear so upset that the very King of France feels inclined to beg pardon?"</p><p>Her smirk is gently playful as she wrings out the excess water from her hair. She's teasing him, pink in her cheeks and neck. The neckline of her dress is low. Her attire sticks to her every angle. He's painfully flustered and finds solace in staring nervously towards the distance as dusk begins to diversify the horizon. He determines the sky to be the inferior view. </p><p>"I'm-...I'm simply shocked that you found such humor in your own misfortune."</p><p>She quirks a brow, the corners of her mouth gently pulling further upwards. He averts his gaze yet again. "Was it not humorous?"</p><p>Louis pauses, eyes undecidedly between his wife and the ground. Marie waits for his response expectantly. </p><p>"Perhaps only after I found you unharmed," he admits. </p><p>"Then why did you not laugh?" She thinks his hesitation amicably charming. </p><p>"I-...it would not have been appropriate, my dear Queen." And now he seems blatantly confused. As though her slip in social etiquette had been the worst of her crimes all these years. </p><p>She can't help but look about their surroundings. It's desolate. The very reason she escapes to this part of the garden. "To whom?" </p><p>Marie shivers again, far more visibly. Her lips press together firmly and her toes curl against the cobblestone. Her arms fold tightly as another breeze catches at her exposed skin and wet hair. She sneezes. He <em>panics</em>. </p><p>Her husband moves quickly yet again, this time with purpose. She keenly watches the shift in his shoulders as he removes his coat. Her lips purse as he approaches hastily, hands turning the attire to wrap around her frame and rest on her shoulders. It's heavy. Wool. Decorated. Scented like pine. </p><p>She realizes it’s been some time since she’s seen him without at least a variant of formal outerwear. He looks only somewhat broad, though not as honed as perhaps a man of war. Healthy, she considers. </p><p>"You'd have me laugh? At your expense?" His smile is bashful and his eyebrows knitted with concern as he asks. His hands brush against her collar as he fixes the hem to sit correctly. His attention shifts briefly from her eyeline to her mouth. She thinks her observation mistaken. </p><p>"If it is in good nature, why not?"</p><p>His mouth falls open briefly as he realizes he has no answer. He closes it abruptly, posture stiffening at her very close proximity. His hands linger on the collar of his jacket near her neck, her hair leaving spots of water about his wrists and fingers. Her own pull gently at the lapels to further envelope her front. </p><p>He is warm, speechless, and in a rapid, unfamiliar state of mind that leaves him no time for critical thought. His basic cognitive functions fail him. His grip on his coat firms as he swallows. </p><p>She is far more graceful in this moment than he has ever seen her. He considers that she is more real when undone and unconfined. Far more open and vivid and tangible than at any event or ball. More human than anyone has ever exposed themselves to be in his presence. There are specks of water still caught in her lashes and strands of stray hair that frame her face. Small bits of leaves from the lilies stuck on the skin of her neck. The Queen has stricken him immobile in a way that Louis finds is dangerously close to adoration.</p><p>She leans upward on her toes to press a chaste kiss at the edge of his jaw. His breath catches with immediate apprehension. </p><p>He thinks his heart stops. Or perhaps his lungs. </p><p>Marie falls back to her heels as his hands return to his sides; she thinks he may be repulsed by her. Her lips press firmly into a thin line. </p><p>"Thank you, my King." She steps back and goes to obtain her shoes. She acts as though it were the most simple thing in the world. The most seamless and trivial of gestures. "I've no idea how I'll explain this to Deniau." </p><p>He is burning against the cold air. His skin is as hot as hers is as cold. He barely collects himself as she struggles to make her attire and hair more presentable, clearing his throat. </p><p>"Shall we walk together, then?" He offers his arm, and she takes it appreciatively. </p><p>"I’d hoped to," she admits. </p><p>He cannot look at his wife the rest of the evening. Even as her fingers curl into the bend of his sleeve and her wrist rests idly upon his forearm. Her other hand plays mindlessly with the lace of his wrist cuff. She talks about a book she’d read regarding Grecian myths and proverbs, comparing the culture to that of her home. He listens reverently to every word. </p><p>Her clothes are still damp when they find themselves at the gates, but she insists that it does not bother her the slightest. </p><p>Louis sets his lips against her hand when they depart for the evening. It is chaste and proper, perhaps due to his nerves or his admittedly unyielding ineptitude. He curses himself behind a placid facade. She smiles warmly despite the chill of the air and his reservation. She leaves him alone at the steps, his knuckles pressed white as she wraps herself more comfortably in his coat.</p><p>He regrets not kissing her.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p>End Chapter One.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Oranges</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>He finds himself stressed rather early on in the day. He’d woken late, endured the draconian chastising of his Minister, missed breakfast entirely, and had been seated in his study, reviewing documents drafted by foreign heads of state. Included are detailed attempts at improved foreign relations; alongside resolutions presented to more firmly and decisively repay international debts. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>All things he’d realized Marie had adamantly aided in. He considers how many luxuries she’d sacrificed in order to feed bits of monetary support to their goals. He thinks of how often she’d worn the same dress or jewelry. Her meals are less extravagant. Fewer imports, if any at all. She has developed rather intricate suggestions pertaining to land tax against the nobility. Her insistence on reducing the cost of grain production to stave off starvation has become a priority. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The King spills ink upon a rather excessively decorated piece of parchment. He is distracted. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>As a result, he takes a stroll. He feels the threat of a migraine at the base of his skull and Blaisdell insists he briefly unwind himself beyond his study. He wonders if Marie is in the gardens. Or perhaps the groves? Likely the fountain, which he nervously evades after their most recent rendezvous. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He walks through the Orangery instead. Cleaner paths. Closer proximity. The fruit trees there vary in size. Some adolescents, others having lived several generations, well exceeding his own age. He considers that she’d perhaps not linger there with such a frequent amount of traffic, given the staff and horticulturists. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He questions if he even wants to </span>
  <em>
    <span>see</span>
  </em>
  <span> his wife. She recently plagues his daydreaming with such prevalence and regularity that he has hesitations in approaching her. His disposition towards her has softened. And, despite her changes and betterment, he considers it a risk to himself to grow fond of her so easily. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But he considers her dependability. How steadfast she’s become in the face of peril and condemnation. She had solidified her loyalty despite his lack of conviction in her word, all while seething at the accusations she’d been framed for. Marie had stood on her own, despite him, and adapted. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He slows his pace, feeling vulnerable to a moment of regret. It's cut short when a book falls from the branches of a larger tree in the distance. It lands heavy against the cobblestone, followed by the obvious shift of leaves from the source. Louis approaches to pick up the hardcover, turning it over to inspect the bind. A novel written on political reform from the eyes of the dying. The King averts his attention upwards into the branches. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His wife holds her laughter in behind a gloved hand, standing upon a raised branch and leaning against another for support. The leaves rustle as she steps further down with careful motions, seating herself upon a lower branch to greet him. Her dress is dirty. Her heels are scuffed. The foliage does well to conceal her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“M-...my dearest Queen...should I ask?” He smiles bashfully, somehow only mildly surprised. The irony of meeting her here is astounding. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My King,” she regards lightly. “I was <em>petrified</em> you were Minister Blaisdell. He’s not very fond of having to hunt me down.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There is a cold breeze that tousles her braided hair and decorative lace. The leaves shift about in rapid, sharp succession. Eolian sounds which perfectly tune to her demeanor and lightheartedness. She braces a bit, her free hand pressed firmly into her lap to hold down the fabric against the wind. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Louis swallows, averting his attention to the expanse of the fields just as the wind dies. “I can confirm he was not in the best of moods this morning.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She laughs. He finds her happiness therapeutic. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He’s become proficient in navigating the more exclusive parts of the groves. I had to find a new place to evade my responsibilities, if only for a moment.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The King places the book down to rest along the path, his focus returning to his wife. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You climbed this? Alone?” Louis sets a bare hand upon the bark. It is wide and sturdy. One of the largest gifted to Versailles. The blossoms are beginning to transition into fruit, varying from speckles of white and yellow. They match the pale of her hair. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How else, my King?” Her smile is wide and posture loose. She leans forward on the branch to regard him more properly, legs swaying buoyantly. His chest tightens, painful, at the thought of her falling. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“May I assist you?” His dominant hand extends upwards, almost insistent. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her lips press into a thin line. She considers refusing, aware of her ability to independently land. Yet she leans further forward to take his offer, regardless, as he rarely ever reaches to her so confidently. Marie hesitates, noting the dirt of her gloves. She wonders if he is embarrassed by her behavior as she takes a moment to remove both accessories entirely. She tucks them into a belt of ribbon at her waist. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’d be grateful," she affirms. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His eyes watch her motions religiously as she sets her hand in his, slow to slide from her elevated position. He adjusts his posture to prepare for her jump, extending his other hand for her to grip with assurance and stability. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her skin is immediately cold from the chill of the open air. He ignores it, pulling her down gently and with ease. She stumbles slightly upon landing, her heels unsteady. Marie leans into him for support, her hands locked in his intimately as she nearly trips forward. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Louis stabilizes her, and almost dies at the sight. He can hear his own pulse overworking and can feel the red of his face. She is covered in blossoms and leaves and is as close as she'd been that day at the fountain. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She smells of oranges, dirt and morning air. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her hands relinquish her grip on his before she sets to righting the layers of her dress. She then begins picking pieces of nature from her braid. His height over her allows him to see the bits she misses; he unconsciously, as thought so enamored he'd not considered thinking, leans even closer to remove a blossom from the crown of her hair. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He inhales abruptly when she looks up and smiles, thanking him. Then she takes it from his hand with the gentle grace of Theresa herself, inspecting it between her index and thumb. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Where are these oranges from?” she asks, examining the petals. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If my memory serves me correct, t-these are from Spain.” He must appear so painfully foolish. Red. Tense. Uneasy. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They smell wonderful," she assesses. Marie allows the wind to take it from her open palm. “Will you take me there?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His chest constricts and his jaw goes slack. “T-...to <em>Spain</em>?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He catches a glimpse of her teeth with how playful her grin becomes. She finishes dusting off her dress, leaving her gloves in her belt. “Yes. Perhaps just the two of us. I’d love to travel anywhere, really.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Queen begins righting the smaller details of her outfit, attention occupied. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Meanwhile he is astounded, having never anticipated their aspirations to align. A desire to travel was far from anything she had mentioned in the past. His wife had only ever held love for Austria; barely any for France. Yet now she makes such vast, grandiose requests about the rest of the world. One that he thinks is almost sarcastic with how little expectation she holds in her expression. As though she was certain it would never occur.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He speaks without truly thinking. “I-...Of course.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her head snaps up, surprised curiosity pinching her brow. Her lips purse as she hesitates to speak. His own press into a line at the overwhelming desire to kiss her.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“<em>Truly</em>, Louis?” The edges of her mouth pull up again. "Once France is stable?" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His chest aches at her concern for their country above all else. It beckons him to meet her eyeline brazenly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Anywhere," he reaffirms. It is a foreign boldness that speaks on his behalf, but falters only briefly as his eyes flicker to the ground. “Anywhere you want to go, Marie.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He is struck panicked when she abruptly embraces him. He tenses, rigid, and has no time to return the gesture before she steps back to look him in the eye once again. Her hands hold his loosely. She is flushed, excited and alight with such a radiance that he cannot possibly deny her anything within his power. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She is painfully close again. He desires nothing more than to close such a meager distance. He can easily offer her everything he has, if only to maintain that serene euphoria in her expression. He wonders if she can hear his heart in his chest. He wonders what she would do if he admitted himself so weak to her levity.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Thank you, Louis," she says it so warmly. Her hands part from his before she bows curtly and respectfully. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His tongue is tied, the linger of her contact renders him frozen. The use of his name threatens to unravel his composure. Any etiquette he has ever retained throughout his life as a royal leaves him, as he is reminded of the feel of her lips to his jaw that evening in the garden.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She bends to pick up her novel, brushing dust off the surface. His wife is oblivious to his cognitive failure, yet expresses a slight nervousness of her own. "Let's return. I'm sure Minister Blaisdell will be expecting you." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Louis damns his cowardice yet again as she begins to walk away. He does not see the flush of her skin nor the slight tremble of her legs. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Marie quickly hides herself away in her private room, concealing the redness of her face in her hands. </span>
</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p>End Chapter Two.<br/>
<br/>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Rain</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It's raining heavily. His guards cannot find her. The servants cannot find her. She'd missed their meeting among the aristocracy, which had disbanded over an hour prior. Louis defends that her presence wasn't necessarily required, as no one had truly anticipated her to attend this session in particular. It had pertained strictly to foreign relations, and she's well aware she has no bearing on anything beyond Austria, hence her usually spotty attendance.</p><p>When she still did not show after, their inner circle grew concerned. No one had heard from her since early hours, sparking the small manhunt for the Queen throughout the palace. </p><p>They've scoured what is beginning to feel like more than a hundred rooms, and no one has managed to find Marie within the halls. The staff has gone so far as to search areas of little interest, some of which she has never even set foot in. </p><p>Louis grows more and more concerned with every servant who declares her still unfound. Blaisdell is losing all wit and poise at the idea that the literal <em>Queen of France</em> goes missing so regularly. Her inability to remain still and abide by formal deadlines is something which challenges him aggressively. The Minister maintains a look of placidity and competence, yet his jaw is set rigid and his patience wears thin. It is only somewhat evident from the look in his eyes. </p><p>If Louis hadn't been increasingly worried, he'd have found humor in his friend's gradual loss of composure. </p><p>"Her Majesty evades these meetings like the plague, yet she wants nothing more than to ensure their results," Blaisdell inhales deeply as though to abate his frustration. </p><p>Louis watches the last of the nobility leave, his dominant hand stimming nervously at his broach. "She doesn't like sitting still for longer than she's required to." </p><p>The Minister scoffs. "Precisely why she has only <em> one </em>portrait." </p><p>"I can confide in you?" Louis turns to him nervously and abruptly, leaning closer as though to disclose something of an exclusive variety. </p><p>Blaisdell raises a single brow, curious. "Have you not always?" </p><p>He watches for another extensive moment as the King stumbles upon his own thoughts, expression stressed and bordering on embarrassed. Louis straightens, setting a hand over his mouth contemplatively before he deems himself ready to proceed. </p><p>"I think of her...constantly. I regret that our relationship is as distant as it is. I regret that I have not been more forward in expressing my appreciation for...her."</p><p>"For what reasons?"</p><p>"I’ve considered that she evades us so often because she desires freedom, yet that is the single thing I cannot offer. She is carefree, endearing, kind. She has become so generous and good-natured. I'd never noticed how striking her laugh is,” Louis exhales, a hand running down his worried expression tensely. “She is suddenly beautiful beyond understanding and yet her physical appearance is perhaps the single thing that goes unchanged."</p><p>His Minister scrutinizes him, a look of question hangs over Louis as though it were unfiltered judgement. "So you've fallen in love with the Queen of France?"</p><p>“I-...I suppose,” his thinking is rapid and disorganized. Hearing it aloud has unnerved him. “The thought terrifies me." </p><p>"The thought of you, <em>the King</em>, being in love...with <em>the Queen</em>,” Blaisdell has the nerve to almost laugh at him, smirking derisively, “your<em> wife</em>? The woman you are <em> married </em>to?" </p><p>"<em> I- </em>...” Louis looks up from his stressing with a pinched brow, expression unamused. “When you state it so candidly it makes me sound ridiculous." </p><p>He scoffs, humored. "So will you tell her?"</p><p>"I'm uncertain if I <em> can </em>."</p><p>"I think it would be wise," he smiles placidly. </p><p>"And if she rejects me? After the years of shunning her? Criticizing her? Expressing only disappointment in her hobbies and decisions?"</p><p>"Then she rejects you," the Minister shrugs. </p><p>Louis cannot determine if he’s been more helpful or vexing. </p><p>The doors shift open, interrupting. Deniau enters his study, unease apparent by the stress of her expression. She hustles in after a curt but formal bow, her lips pressed into a fine line and her hands folded stiffly at the front of her dress. </p><p>"We still cannot find her within the palace," she sighs. "However, Marquis de Lafayette has nobly offered to take a grouping of his men to search the exterior grounds." </p><p>Louis takes a deep breath. She is likely in the gardens. Regardless of the rain, the Queen would be roaming. </p><p>He emboldens himself, determined to mitigate. "No need. Please, Deniau, fetch an umbrella." </p><p>Her mouth opens to protest, lost on her words briefly before she registers his intention. "Your Majesty, forgive me, but this weather would <em> never </em>allow."</p><p>"If the Queen can withstand the rain, I imagine I'll have no trouble." </p><p>Blaisdell makes a face. One he’s only seen in the shadow of poor decisions. “Your Majesty, allow us to send someone el-” </p><p>“I’ll manage,” he raises a hand as though to dismiss the debate entirely.  </p><p>"You're certain her Majesty would brave such frigid conditions?" </p><p>Louis wants to laugh. "As certain as we are that she's not inside."</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>He goes, regardless, and against the recommendations of a heavily despondent Blaisdell. He carries a rather sturdy umbrella, protected by an additional layer of outerwear. The downpour is tedious. The air is damp. The rain runs before him in sheets, overflowing the ponds.</p><p>It’s cold, but not as terribly as they’d insinuated. There is no wind nor breeze. The visibility, though, he admits is poorly.</p><p>It takes him some time before Louis finds her along the paths to the main garden. The dark of cloud cover is inconsistent and cut by the slight excess of moonlight. She holds a single palm out loosely, eyes closed and lightly fluttering against the deluge. She has immersed herself, clothed in perhaps the most simple thing she may own. Bare feet. Another ruined dress. The drenched fabric conforms to her body; he feels himself swallow at the sight of her hair, loose and stuck about her cheeks and shoulders. </p><p>He's seen her in a similar state before. It is the same inelegant torture as their encounter at the fountain weeks prior. Yet it did not strike him as dramatically as it does in the dark and the rain; comparable to a bullet through his rib-cage.</p><p>He may have once thought this to be inappropriate, though now he is growing used to such offhandedness. Still, everything about her in this moment is far too informal - far too exposed and undone. The King finds himself grateful that he was the one to find her. Von Fersen is far too keen with his wife; Lafayette would not know how to handle her persistence nor her appearance. Blaisdell would have perhaps left her to catch illness as a lesson. </p><p>Louis stands far in her peripheral, silently observant. He is uncertain of his own considerations. His mind is cluttered between how elegant she seems beneath the wrath of nature and how obtuse her behavior is at their level of society. His upbringing has steered him to be disapproving of such immaturity, yet he feels nothing but reverence and something akin to piety. </p><p>He takes a step forward, then her eyes meet him abruptly. He'd startled her again, yet she still smiles vividly. Her posture and reactions speak heavily of her character. He assesses that she is innocent and good-natured, strong and wondrously resolute. But undoubtedly irresponsible, borderline careless of herself. Perhaps his polar opposite, he thinks.</p><p>"My King!" She calls him jovially. He jolts, alarmed at the volume and clarity of her voice through the rain. "We must stop meeting in such a way!" </p><p>He closes the distance at a regular pace. Her eyes follow him curiously the entire time, concerned at his lack of response to her humor. He appears so uniquely serene despite the circumstance. She'd anticipated his instinctive nervousness to nearly panic at her informal appearance. She knows she appears unsightly this way, perhaps even roguishly uncivil. </p><p>Instead he is steady, stopping just far enough away that is typically proper. Louis smiles, so genuine that she cannot help but return it in earnest. He tenses rather obviously and in preparation before intentionally sacrificing his shelter to stave off the rain from his wife. She watches as his arm extends forward to offer her the cover of his umbrella, removing it from his own proximity.</p><p>He is immediately met with the unforgiving downpour, as she is shielded from it. </p><p>Marie stands in disbelief, taking a moment to register his decision, watching her husband as his coat gradually dampens. </p><p>Her jaw goes slack as she gasps. She tastes the rain briefly in her shock, staggering with wide eyes. Her motions are quick to counter him. Her palms are freezing like death when they envelope his dominant hand gripping the handle of the umbrella. The Queen nearly stumbles against him with intent to ensure they are both covered completely. She pulls him close, adjusting their position to stand together beneath it. </p><p>He watches her warmly despite the slight chill. </p><p>She catches such a soft expression on his face; his slight smile pleasant. Her blood boils up her neck and into her cheeks out of both flustered embarrassment and mild frustration at his unusual carelessness. </p><p>"What were you thinking, my King?!" She is almost breathless from her panic, her fingers intertwining with his own along the handle. The hand he has concealed at the arch of his back tenses, as she is pressed against him intimately. He feels his own loss of breath at the mere sight of her so terribly close. </p><p>"You're soaked," he observes. He chuckles under his breath at their predicament, his pulse so erratic he can hear it above the weather. </p><p>"And now you are as well," she scolds. His wife meets his eyeline, concern evident despite the dark. She is flushed, cold, trembling and stunning. Crystalline bits of water running through stray strands of hair, vibrating as her teeth chatter. She adjusts her shaky hands higher along the umbrella, nervously realizing her rushed placement over his. </p><p>A thin sheen of water begins to seep through the pores of the fabric above them. Louis can't bring himself to care. </p><p>He begins to shift so as to offer his coat. She sets a firm hand on his shoulder to stop him. </p><p>“Please, I must decline. I enjoy the rain,” she insists kindly. </p><p>He sighs. "You're certainly more entertained alongside the elements than in the palace.” </p><p>"I think the elements tend to be far more beautiful than our walls. Do you not agree?" She seeks his approval. Something she's never considered before. Something that sits like frantic moths at the base of her stomach, fluttering wildly, even as she gestures to the curtains of water. </p><p>"Yes." Her lips press together as she smiles. He watches the action religiously, oblivious to the sight of the rain. "I...agree." </p><p>Marie glances down at her bare feet, attempting to evade such a look on his face. She cannot fathom what he's thinking, and instead wonders if he is truly leaning so much closer, or if she has imagined such an act. "Shall we go? I wouldn't want you further drenched at my expense, Louis." </p><p>His name again. His words die on his tongue.</p><p>The King swallows his nerves, feeling the gradually increasing cold of the air as he examines the cobblestone under his feet. He meets her expectant eyeline, almost as shaken as she is by the degree. His free hand reaches up, hesitating briefly before slowly shifting a thick tangle of hair out of her field of view. It is a careful, cliché gesture. But one he thinks to be both enjoyable and necessary to express his affections without the horrid fumble of botched speech. </p><p>Her face is red as he does so. She sets a hand over her mouth and takes a step back, abruptly choosing to expose herself to the rain. Louis reaches out for her unconsciously, hand idle as he stops himself. He realizes his error, feeling as though he'd been disgraced. He only corrects himself after she’d scrutinized the gesture, retracting his hand as though burned. </p><p>She is staring at him in confusion, comparable to a deer at the end of a rifle. </p><p>So quickly, their exchange has become tense. </p><p>He identifies this devastated feeling as rejection. He wonders if this vast sinking in his stomach is how she’d felt the entirety of their marriage. What she had carried for years as he evaded her systematically. It was as abrupt as he's pondered death to be. Louis winces, overwhelmed with the most striking pain through his chest. Mortification. Disenchantment. Self-loathing. All swift. All immediate. </p><p>Marie’s breathing is off, hands still trembling, attention running from his face to his chest rapidly. She wears her mutual affliction clearly in her demeanor. </p><p>He inhales deeply, collecting himself. Struggling to maintain composure. He nods in understanding of her reaction. The King sympathizes, still vividly recalling his own repulsion in the earliest days of their coupling. That guilt weighs heavily. It bolsters the feeling of repudiation. </p><p>"I...wouldn't be bothered in staying - should it make you happy. “ He evades her eyes, focusing on their surroundings instead. He blinks away the threat of his own weakness, suddenly grateful for the rain. “Though I would deeply regret the evening should...should you catch a fever." </p><p>He believes that he could never regret their encounter, regardless of her rejection. </p><p>"We should go,” she reassures him gently, stepping forward back into the cover of the umbrella. She swallows her nerves, curling her hands against her chest defensively. “I've evaded the palace long enough. And I’m beginning to suffer the cold." </p><p>Louis smiles. He allows himself to feel dejected, but he cannot bring himself to be so despondent in her presence. Her smile, though sensitive, will not allow him. "Then shall we walk together, my dear Queen?" </p><p>She turns to glance back at her previous place in the garden, eying the ruined shoes she'd earlier tossed aside. Her mellowed words are diminished by the rain, barely comprehensible through the noise. "I love you." </p><p>"I-...” A tension burns from his chest into his throat, weighted. It is immediate and comparable to the coarseness of salt. There is a hope there that taunts him, edging on confusion. "<em> What </em>?"</p><p>His mouth is dry, shoulders rigid. His pulse is erratic yet again and the pain he feels is confounding and torrid. She turns back to look at him, her lips pressed together in hesitation. </p><p>"I said I'd love to," she clarifies. </p><p>He feels only agony, and he's convinced himself he's deserving of it. She is entirely disengaged, choosing to leave her heels behind. They walk back through the rain in tense silence, careful of their footing in the dark and among water. They divide politely and stiffly at the steps, as is proper. </p><p>Neither sleep, conflicted into early hours, accompanied by their most trusted. He silently splits a bottle of whiskey with his Minister. Duchess Polignac holds her hands tightly as she cries. </p>
<hr/><p>End Chapter Three.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>There will be a happy ending.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Apology</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It's several weeks before they speak again. His duties have forced him to frequent his study, whereas her own result in consistent meetings with commoner representatives, typically attended by one of his most trusted for her protection. </p><p>He's kept his mind constantly committed to a multitude of tasks; a way of avoiding wandering considerations. She's thrown herself into her work as well, so he’s heard. Though her dedication has yet to keep her from spending any free time evading the palace, apparently. After their last interaction, he can't blame her. </p><p>Blaisdell mentions that she acts emotionally unwell. And Duchess Polignac had come to the Minister with a similar concern on more than one occasion, deeply worried at Marie's recent indifference. Lafayette has even made a note of her distance and change in demeanor. So he brings the matter to the King, providing an opportunity for his Majesty to offer a personal resolution.  </p><p>Louis instead nervously tells him to set aside the rather tenuous funds of his next hunting trip so as to afford something that will improve her mood. Blaisdell obliges, though rather thwarted. </p><p>Her Majesty refuses the offer, unsurprisingly. </p><p>All expenses, save for their hobbies, have been routed to the country’s deficit. Marie attends plays and operas, and has imported tea in the drawing room among her peers. The king goes hunting monthly, and locksmiths to keep sane. And yet their emotional concerns run beyond the fix of temporary distraction. </p><p>Blaisdell suspects that it is in direct relation to the King's unfortunate rejection. An event that he is certain was somehow miscommunicated, given Marie's gradual lack of composure in the presence of his Majesty. She tends to think her makeup hides her fluster well, but the evidence of her pining was so apparent that it was noted by one rather oblivious and sickeningly forlorn Axel von Fersen. </p><p>He speculates every so often on how the two have managed to be such poor communicators. All despite their frequent verbal appeals and lectures when meeting among strangers and fickle nobility. They have stood in front of crowds, nearly hand in hand, to deliver news of their progress and intentions for restoration. They have expressed the sincerest of apologies in front of enraged commoners, and vocalized resolutions over boisterous mobs.</p><p>And yet Louis can barely manage a sentence in her presence, nervous beyond comprehension. And he has caught Marie, on more than one occasion, so stricken by her husband's kindness that she conceals her reddened face in shaken hands. </p><p>And now the King is so pitifully reserved and quiet; Blaisdell can barely stand the silence of his study, typically clangorous with Louis’ thoughts and idle conversation. </p><p>This does not prevent the Minister from voicing his rather routine complaints about the Queen's inelegant behavior, regardless. As she is frustrating, capricious, and volatile in ways which he swears upon Christ are intentional. Likely to exacerbate him for her own carefree entertainment, as she does find playful humor in bending rules.</p><p>As a result, he finds himself forcing the doors of the King's study open; abrupt and far harsher than intended. Louis visibly jolts in his seat at the unexpected entrance, hand tightening about a lock in progress and tool. </p><p>"Your Majesty, she is out of her <em> wits </em> yet <em> again</em>." Blaisdell is bordering on unhinged as he approaches, frustration evident despite his forced expression of impassiveness. </p><p>The King has never heard his advisor with such a rushed, raised impatience. The man walks up swiftly to the desk, posture rigid, one arm tensely stiff at the arch of his back. </p><p>"What are you-...<em> Marie</em>?" Louis knows almost immediately. No other force could drive Blaisdell to such blatant indignation. His chest tightens, recalling her standing in the rain. "Is...she well?" </p><p>"She refuses to come inside," he claims.</p><p>Louis' brows pinch with concern. He glances to his windows, frosted and painfully white from the snow. What little sun breaks the cloud cover is blinding against the ice. "It's <em> freezing</em>."</p><p>"I attempted to urge her into the palace out of concern for her well-being. Unsurprisingly, she refused. I am considering utilizing our armed forces."</p><p>“Don’t be ridiculous,” Louis can rarely tell when his Minister is jesting, as the seriousness of his tone never wavers. It typically requires elaboration. He thinks, this time, he perhaps is not. "It would be far easier to simply ask her what she'd prefer to do."</p><p>Blaisdell lightly scoffs. </p><p>"Then I Ieave the task of convincing her Majesty in your capable hands, my King. Since it is plainly evident I have no means of persuading her." </p><p>“Where is she?” Louis stands, nervously straightening the tools lined along the edge of his desk. Then he adjusts his coat excessively, and stims at his pendant. His attention must be fixated beyond her, even if she is the topic of conversation. </p><p>“In the Orangery,” Blaisdell sighs “apparently waiting to catch ill and die.” </p><p>Louis disregards the comment, focused on emboldening his disposition so as to face her properly. He wants to interact with her as a King should, rather than a nervous, heartbroken juvenile. She is deserving of firm competence, as she has so often met him with level-headedness and certainty. He adjusts his coat again, then gloves, taking the necessary time to strengthen his resolve. </p><p>“I can speak with her,” Louis smiles at his friend, as if suddenly feeling improved enough to see his wife. “Perhaps she’ll listen to a more amicable tone.” </p><p>Blaisdell smiles politely. "Perhaps."</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>It's only when he steps outside into the frigid air that he realizes just how long it’s been. The snowfall is from the night prior, idle and stiff. The air is crisp and nearly painful against the exposed skin of his face. He reddens immediately, sensitive to the chill. He recalls the heavy rain of the month prior, perhaps even longer. The season has passed by in the time he’d spent evading his wife and dedicating himself to his work. </p><p>There is a regret that wells in his stomach, and nothing to hold his attention beyond the painful rejections she had conveyed. He walks the cleared paths through the gardens, intent on using this opportunity to rectify his error.</p><p>She is seated along a row of trees and in the snow; her dominant arm props her up as the other traces patterns along the slush. He cannot dictate where her vision is, as she is faced away from him across the main promenade. </p><p>She is put together so specifically. Not a hair out of place, elegantly curled and poised over her shoulder. Her dress is proper for the weather, accented in furs and ribbons. It manages to be as white as her surroundings, decorated with slight segments of pastel colors. Her posture is so strained and upright despite her placement on the ground. He finds it unlike her. </p><p>Yet there is still an agonizing longing that seizes him. He acts as though he had not seen her in years, having managed to systematically avoid even their typically domestic encounters. Things he misses dearly and blames himself for losing. </p><p>He’d previously observed how politely she sits in the drawing room. How much she enjoys jam on bread. How quiet she becomes upon finding intrigue in particular chapters of her favored novels. He remembers a certain set of earrings that framed her face nicely, and then the smile she wore when catching him admiring said accessories. </p><p>Louis swallows his self-loathing, as he has an obligation to prioritize her well-being. He is her husband, even if she is remorseful of the fact. </p><p>"My dearest Queen,” he approaches her calmly, ignoring his nerves and the rapid pace of his blood. "It's warmer inside."</p><p>Marie turns to him, surprised at the cautious familiarity of his voice. Her mouth opens to find words, attention running from the flush of his face to his warm attire and back - it takes her a moment to fully develop a response. Her lips press into a line contemplatively before she offers a slow, somber smile. Her eyes are tired and the sight wounds him. </p><p>"It’s rather stuffy in the palace, don’t you agree?"</p><p>“Do you refer to the quality of air, or our Interior Minister?” He laughs lightly at his own jest, only partially serious. </p><p>Her smile grows from earnest to entertained. Marie clears her throat to conceal her humor, moreso her surprise. "Did he complain of me? I know I test his patience."</p><p>"You <em> are </em>rather eccentric, in recent days. Though only for good reasons." </p><p>"As are you, your Majesty. Though I doubt you match my informality." Her countenance is lighter, but still fatigued. </p><p>"I suppose. At least in comparison to my predecessor," he admits.</p><p>She turns her attention back to the snow, a delicate finger continuing to trail a pattern along the surface beside her. "With no intention of speaking ill of the dead, I must acknowledge that you manage to be far more respectable and dignified than your grandfather before you."</p><p>He has to swallow. A proper response is lost to him at something so straightforward and favorable. He barely manages recognition of her words, much less gratitude. "Thank you, Marie." </p><p>The silence is typically serene, comparable to his time in the forest and in the solitude of his study. Yet it manages to be frustratingly unwelcome, as he’s desperate to form some kind of relevant apology. Louis admits to himself that he would say anything to improve her mood, but remorse must be properly articulated. </p><p>So he lowers himself to sit beside her, tensing against the chill. He rests an arm over his knee, attempting to idle comfortably despite the unfamiliarity of the action. Sitting on the frozen ground of his property, unattended and informally alongside his wife, is perhaps less extreme than standing in pouring rain. It still manages to be far more awkward. </p><p>Marie laughs lightly, though still aloof, with eyes fixated on the slush of the ground. </p><p>"We are so terribly different, you and I,” she says. </p><p>“How so?” </p><p>He knows that he does not need to ask, but rather wants to. Their differences are easily apparent, even to those who know little to nothing about them. His social ineptitude. Her daunting confidence. Marie hums as she considers her answer, bare hand clenching and unclenching before continuing to draw her patterns. </p><p>“At one point, every decision I had ever made was to benefit only myself. Even when I had first started being more considerate of expenses and politics, it was all to prevent the possibility of my death at the hands of our people,” she sighs. “I was afraid that I would be killed in retaliation." </p><p>She will not look at him. He feels a sinking, and yet refuses to relinquish the determination that urges him to maintain. He realizes, regrettably, that she had been fearful and he had not been there to console her.</p><p>He swallows, his knuckles white and pulse still rapid. "A reasonable fear. Tensions had been...high."</p><p>"However, my King,” she says his title rather faintly. “At some point...though I am not exactly certain when...everything I did was instead for you. You only desire to be better, and good to your people. It made me want to lessen your burden, and make certain your reputation was improved for your safety."</p><p>When she finally looks to him for his reaction, she must withhold an intensely prominent smile. As his face had reddened so drastically that she could easily compare it to the day she’d fallen into the fountain. Though, she supposed, this is more due to his typical fluster than horrified embarrassment. </p><p>He has no idea what to do with himself, nor how to respond. </p><p>Instead, Louis is quick to stand back upon his feet, almost clamorously. Then extends a confident hand out as he holds the other stiffly to the arch of his back. He is rigid and tense and blushing so madly that she feels her own sheepishness boil into her cheeks. He blinks rapidly before he speaks, jaw firming just as he finds the words. </p><p>"You worry over my safety, yet you neglect your own.” He offers his hand further, encouraging her to take it. “Where are your gloves, my dear Queen? You risk a fever." </p><p>Marie nearly forgets to breathe, taken aback by his outburst and insistence. She sets her hand in his, assessing the very flushed disposition of such a stern display. He is warm through the fabric, and her hands are freezing from the cold. "I'd...forgotten."</p><p>"Shall we finish this discussion inside, then?” He lifts her from the ground so easily. She dusts off the fabric of her dress, uncomfortably damp from the snow. “Please?" </p><p>Marie can only smile as he leads her along the path, maintaining the gentle hold on her hand. </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>The servants had brought her a blanket and a cup of coffee. Marie sits at the table in the main drawing room, her hands about the drink to warm them. The afternoon light from the windows is bleak through the cloud cover, barely illuminating the space properly. She sighs, content, as he sits across from her and sheds his coat. </p><p>No staff are present to take it, so he hangs it casually upon the back of an unused chair. Her eyes follow his movements, which are normal, smooth, and rather unlike him. She supposed he’d grown more comfortable with the action. She wonders if he’d learned such a thing from her own languid tendencies, even when he removes his gloves in such a particular fashion. </p><p>Her lips are idle against the rim of her cup; she feels like she must make her own attempts at repairing their relationship. Louis had certainly extended himself, going so far as to find his wife despite her rancid behavior that evening in the rain. She thinks that she certainly does own him an apology, as her flattery, as true as she may consider it, is not enough to properly mend the damage she had undoubtedly caused them. </p><p>She places her cup rather abruptly against the table. It catches his attention before she stands, allowing the blanket to inelegantly fall from her shoulders to the floor. Louis stands as well, as it is proper, though she suspects it is also somewhat out of panic. His hand is gripped so firmly into the top rail of the chair that his knuckles are white. </p><p>She steps forward, with risk of invading his personal space, and takes his free hand gently in hers. She is warm from the coffee and her own fluster. He relaxes at the action, and feels almost sympathetic to the look of regret she wears. She has always been rather small in stature, and he regularly felt unreasonably towering in her presence. But her demeanor has left her even more diminutive. He prefers it when she stands boisterously tall. He enjoys her confidence as it reassures his own. </p><p>“I’m so sorry, Louis.” Marie is deathly serious, as if she faced an accusation. A similar look she had given him ages ago when faced with the scandal of the necklace. </p><p>The King takes a steady breath, his lips pressing together firmly at the instinctive desire to close such a slight distance. “You’ve nothing to apologize f-”</p><p>“I <em>do</em>,” she interrupts. “I have acted poorly despite your kindness. I responded with...<em>such</em> <em>indignity</em>.” </p><p>He smiles fondly, her grip firming over his hand at such an expression. “I must argue that you are always dignified, my dear Queen.” </p><p>There is a glassiness to her eyes, fueled by her self-deprecation and remorse. Emotions that she is undeserving of. It feels as though someone is killing him. Louis must withhold his own weakness and empathy for her. He is told that his countenance must always be firm and competent, resolute no matter the threat. And yet he finds himself struggling. </p><p>“We are both well aware that I am far from it.” She laughs dryly. “I felt myself unworthy of your natural benignancy, and remorseful of my own affections.” </p><p>His brows pinch; he feels a surge of disbelief coupled by indignation against his own misconceptions. His understanding is jumbled, as she's implied that she'd returned his sentiments and yet felt herself less than deserving of simply his kindness. He thinks it almost laughably ridiculous. Louis barely shakes his head, confused. “<em> Unworthy </em>?”</p><p>He cannot manage anything more elaborative, and instead takes her dominant grip into his free one, and holds both her hands so firmly in each of his own as though wanting to solidify such an action until death. She is fatally close, her head down in contrition before she cranes her neck to meet his eye-line. He finds her stunning.</p><p>"I have never been a good Queen, yet I think there was a time where, despite my failures as a political figurehead, I made such a visually pristine wife. Yet now, as I strive to be a better Queen, I am becoming a rather poorly wife. And for my own selfish purposes, such as negating the formalities of my obligations.” She sets her forehead against his chest, her hands loosening their grip. His heart may fail at such an action. “So I offer my most sincere apologies possible, Louis. I am certain that you deserve far more grace and competency beside you in companionship.” </p><p>He cannot function. Her words had been muffled into his vest and he had felt every hesitant breath in her concession. He swallows, on the verge of trembling hands, before managing to find his voice. He owes her a proper response; such a fact motivates him. </p><p>“You could not be farther from the truth.” He clears his throat awkwardly before firming his grip on her hands. It urges her to look up again. She is so close to crying that he can only feel pain. His desire to embrace her is so fitfully overwhelming that he nearly struggles to breathe. </p><p>“In what sense?” </p><p>"I owe you an apology, in return." </p><p>She shakes her head slightly. “I see no reason-” </p><p>"I-...I am not honed in these matters," he interrupts, tone insistent in an attempt to be forward. "My social etiquette is well taught, though...poorly executed." </p><p>She laughs softly, the glassiness of her eyes diminishing. "I will argue that a bit of nervousness could never be so dramatically summarized as poor etiquette."</p><p>There is a pause, where he finds himself struggling to keep his hands in hers. He'd rather pull her closer, recognizing his own blatant weakness in wanting to kiss her. His attention is torn between her eyes and her mouth. His focus is inhibited by his desire to elicit his name off her tongue. He wants to hear her laugh and go on eternally about plays and traveling and culture. He would abuse his power if it would prevent her from being so close to tears. </p><p>"I-..." he inhales almost shakily. "I'm attempting to be bold in this matter."</p><p>Her silence is still sullen, though caused by anticipation. It evokes a burning which scorches his lungs. He regrets her sadness so much that he rethinks his words carefully, heart strained by the ache, worsened by the uncontrollable rushing of his blood. </p><p>"I’m sorry that you must be trapped here. That you must be restrained and restricted in ways that I cannot relinquish nor control. I'm not certain <em> when </em> Versailles became your cage rather than your residence, but I fear so deeply for your safety when you attempt to escape it alone," he exhales as though he'd presented himself before a crowd. Her hands tense in his own, which he realizes have become rather shaken despite his contrived fortitude. </p><p>She appears even more somber. Her eyes find the windows to evade his attention. "Are you asking me to stop wandering into the gardens?" </p><p>He laughs, almost breathless. "To ask you to stop would be <em>a</em> <em>crime</em>." </p><p>She meets his eye line line again, confusion evident. "Then what are you asking, your Majesty?" </p><p>"I'm asking you to take me with you, Marie." </p><p>Her jaw goes slightly slack. The silence is long. He fills it by tracing the details of her eyes, petrified that he will never again see them so close. She takes a moment to blink away her hesitations, focus wandering from his surprisingly placid expression to his jabot, then back up. The corners of her mouth pull upwards. </p><p>"You truly want to come with me?” Her smile is accompanied by a near silent laugh of relief, one of her hands leaving his to conceal the brilliance of her elation. Her stomach flutters at the prospect of such a romantic implication. Her grin is brilliant and infectious. “When I go no further than the groves?"</p><p>"Yes. Every time, if you’d have me.” He nods, glancing to their feet to maintain his seriousness. </p><p>“I would never deny you,” she says it so vibrantly and with a shaken tone. </p><p>Louis clears his throat, steeling himself. “Forgive me, for what I am about to concede." </p><p>"Forgive you?" She's even more teary, though he thinks out of relief. The edge of her wrist wipes away at her eyes. </p><p>He wonders if a burden has been lifted from his wife’s shoulders. It would mean she’d considered him as much as his mind had been occupied by her. The implication reassures him. He is more encouraged than diffident. </p><p>Louis maneuvers her closer, barely any distance between them. His hands are further unsteadied by his nerves and anticipation; they burn at the desire to brush away her lamenting. She’s almost lost balance on her heels. He keeps her steady, inhaling deeply as if he were bracing himself. </p><p>"Every morning I rouse, I hope only to encounter you despite our varied schedules and agendas. Every night I lay to rest, I so deeply regret that we do not share a bed so as to correctly affirm our marriage. In idle moments of my day, before I had wrongly compelled myself into isolation, I had found myself seeking you out in the most unreasonable and unorthodox of places.”</p><p>He seeks her approval to continue. Marie only stares, assessing his disposition as though stunned into silence. </p><p>“I have lost countless hours in dwelling on your thoughts and considerations. I...I think only of your preferences in my own choices and decisions. Every tedious second that you are not with me, I am inclined to think only of you, along with the enlightening sound of your laughter,” he is nearly breathless from his own anxiety. </p><p>Louis swallows, still fearful of the wide-eyed expression that had staled her countenance. She is abashed, lips parted as though her thoughts had died just as she managed to form the words. Her silence only allows him to press forward, intent on vomiting his lovesickness in its entirety. </p><p>“This-...this did not happen when we were first coupled. But I find that I have fallen so abruptly and unexpectedly in love with you, Marie - for your empathy and determination - that my chest aches terribly, even during the most domestic and mundane interactions. I battle constantly to withhold myself from professing. Yet I am in <em> agony </em>, watching you in silence, questioning if I am ever able to be truly worthy of your affections." </p><p>“Auguste…” She is looking for words. He is abruptly stricken by something akin to euphoria at the simple sound of his name. </p><p>He must lean so dramatically forward to rest his forehead into her shoulder, as he cannot endure her expressions while maintaining any semblance of composure. Her free hand idles against his chest as he holds the other. And he finds himself so bold as to grip her closer with his dominant hand at her back. </p><p>Marie cannot manage coherent thought. She is flustered and panicking and it feels as though she risks the failure of her heart. He is so abashedly red that she cannot help but grin childishly and allow herself such a closeness. </p><p>He huffs a pitiful laugh at his own embarrassment. "<em>Please</em>, <em>Marie</em>, grace me with a response." </p><p>"You want me to confirm if <em>you</em> are worthy of <em>my</em> affections?" Her disbelief is apparent in her tone, yet so is her genial smile. He inhales deeply as he collects himself, catching the scent of her coffee, before standing straight again so as to meet her eye line. </p><p>Her elation is worn so clearly. She could kill him. </p><p>"I respect your decisions as much as I do the word of God. So I ask that you either have me as a husband is intended, i-if that is what you so desire, or end my torment with a curt and respectable denial. I would never be so flippantly arrogant to resent you should you decide upon rejecting me." </p><p>Her hand leaves his chest to conceal her grinning. Her laugh is a broken one of relief and joviality, accompanied by the threat of tears yet again. It crushes his lungs like a vice. </p><p>“I could not have possibly maintained our recent distance. I felt as though I had died, respecting our mutual avoidance.” Marie cannot look at him, and instead finds a keen, flustered focus on her shoes. "I truly did not think my feelings were so unequivocally reciprocated, Auguste." </p><p>Louis manages a relieved laugh, still nearly breathless, as he holds her hands to his chest, reverent. He is quick to place his arms about her firmly, his dominant hand idling carefully in her hair, initially hesitant with such a foreign action. He can feel her fingertips pressing solid into his back, curling slightly as she grins uncontrollably against his vest. </p><p>Marie will not lift her head. He finds this endearing, as she is so normally confident in the face of any danger or adversity. And he is so normally hesitant and concealing. The irony is not lost to him. </p><p>She separates from her husband briefly, seeking his eyeline so as to properly ascertain her sentiment. Marie tells him she loves him. </p><p>His alleviation is apparent. Any reluctance leaves him. </p><p>"May I kiss you?" He asks her so simply. As if it is perhaps the easiest thing in the world. His wife is painfully rosy. Louis thinks she wears her fluster well. </p><p>She nods. </p><p>He finds trouble with his hands, admittedly. He maintains her grip in one and sets the other beneath the edge of her jaw, tentatively directing her to angle to his disposition. His chest is in knots when she closes her eyes and lifts off her heels, expression lax in waiting. He can hear his pulse vividly when he closes the distance. </p><p>When he finally kisses her, it's fleeting; barely a contact, barely proper, he admits. Because it burned like fire and gripped him like the draw of an addiction, intangible yet striking. </p><p>He barely pulls away, assuredly calm in resting his forehead on hers. An act of appreciation, as though their exchange would be transitory, or singular. </p><p>Marie does not recall the kiss on their wedding day. She cannot even confirm if they had or had not. The event is vague in her recollections, as though she'd once considered it so unimportant. They have exchanged very brief, distant pecks when the attention of their surroundings had called for it, such as anniversaries or balls. Just enough to be vaguely familiar with the act, but not enough to be relevantly memorable. </p><p>Yet the immediate moment strikes her awareness as a bullet pierces glass. And she intends to relive it as many times as she can manage.</p><p>She stretches to kiss him again. Brief. And again, longer. </p><p>She loses count when he finally grips her like a lifeline. She forgets her place in the story, and everything which exists outside of it. She forgets that she doesn't belong in Versailles. She forgets everything beyond her husband and the rightness she finds in his companionship. </p><p>She laces their fingers as reassurance, knowing he will always be nervous and uncertain with these things. He will always question for her permission. Always hesitate before acting, because he is kind and considerate and so painfully nervous. </p><p>They part, and she leans back onto her heels. He takes the time to breathe evenly, following every slight detail of her expression. She is passive, smiling, and genial as she thinks. Her teeth pull at her bottom lip. He observes the action attentively just before steps away. She turns abruptly, tugging at his hand as if leading him to the halls. Louis nearly stumbles, firming his grip into hers before pulling lightly back. </p><p>He clears his throat, poorly attempting to maintain his composure. "Where are we going, my love?" </p><p>Marie must conceal how fragile such an endearment makes her. </p><p>She halts at the doorway, her hand idle over the handle and eyes running briefly over the elaborate trim. His wife acknowledges him over her shoulder; he preserves the image to his memory. Her smile is playful, her hair somewhat messy from their interactions. He thinks of her walking the wall of the fountain, then balanced upon elevated branches in the orangery. He can easily and appreciatively recall her visage in the rain. He remembers her distinct lack of etiquette at the dinner table, and her unquestionable grace in theater. </p><p>He is elated, thinking he can see her rousing in the mornings, then perhaps reading late into the night in his bed. He realizes that he can now wake up to her, which he finds akin to a gift from God. And that he can hold her in sleep, which is incomparable to anything within his vocabulary. </p><p>Her smile is unmatched in this moment, confident and kind. Her speech is even and light as she answers. "I would like to confidently work on an heir, if you would have me."</p><p>Her husband is immediately flushed, incapable of the proper words. He swallows to quell the sudden dryness of his throat, tightening his hold on her hand. He finds himself unwilling to speak, so as not to delay further. </p><p>He takes a step forward, grinning uncontrollably at the redness from her collar to her cheeks.</p><p>Marie opens the door to the hall, demeanor inelegantly playful. Louis follows her unconditionally, hand in hand. </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p>Fin.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thank you for reading my sappy fanfic.&lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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